


You Could Miss It

by Pinkerton



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst and Feels, Hand Jobs, High School, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, New York City, Panic Attacks, the smut is really minor tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkerton/pseuds/Pinkerton
Summary: “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." — Ferris BuellerA Ferris Bueller's Day Off AU where Kent takes his boyfriend, Eric Bittle, and his best friend, Jack Zimmermann, out for a day of fun in New York City.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [PBJ_EpiFest_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/PBJ_EpiFest_2017) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Media to be Remixed: Ferris Bueller's Day Off  
> Prompt Details: Kent as Ferris Bueller ditching class and taking his friends/boyfriends Bitty and Jack on a wild city-wide adventure. So many hijincks!  
> Additional Info: Your choice if it's established relationship or if they get together during the story. Feel free to keep the plot in Chicago or move to a different fun city of your choosing!  
> Squicks: N/a  
> Maximum Rating: NC-17

A drop of water hits Jack’s face.

Then another.

Then another.

He opens his eyes slowly. He’s facing the window in his bedroom. If his view weren’t obscured, he’d be able to see a perfect, blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds. Maybe a bird would fly by, currents buoying it along its path. Maybe he’d see a plane, silver and glistening, carrying passengers to locations exciting and mundane. 

Another drop hits his face.

Or, maybe he’d see a meteor hurtling to earth, ready to put him out of his misery.

Instead, misery leans forward, backlit from the window, hair a halo of light, his thumb and middle finger hovering over Jack’s bedside water glass, ready to dip and flick.

“You gonna sleep all day?” Kent asks. 

Jack blinks. “Fuck you. Stop doing that.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine! And no.” Another drop, this time just to the left of Jack’s mouth. 

Jack rolls over and pulls the covers up, only to have Kent pull them back down. “Go away, I’m sick.” 

There’s a slight dip to the bed as Kent climbs on, straddling Jack across his hips. Jack bucks a bit, trying to dislodge him, but Kent’s got strong thighs and the totally unfair advantage of being fully awake and, probably, caffeinated. 

He also doesn’t have a headache stretching from his left eye down his neck and a massive bruise on his left knee that aches just enough to prevent being forgotten about, and he probably hasn’t spent his morning feeling sorry for himself.

Resigned to his fate, Jack stills, flat on his back, and stares straight up at his ceiling.

“Nice morning wood.” Kent scoots up just a bit, his weight now across Jack’s stomach instead of his pelvis. 

“Nicer than yours.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, you must if you didn’t bring me coffee.”

“It’s in the kitchen.” Kent slides off of Jack and lays beside him; Jack turns to face him, watches his dappled eyes shift from honeyed to green as the light from the window plays over his face. He’s got a nick on his chin from his post-playoff shave over the weekend. Jack reaches out and runs his finger down the bridge of his nose. He’s still winter pale in late April, his freckles faded, his upper lip a little chapped. 

His hand comes to a rest, cupping Kent’s face and running his thumb over the barely present stubble on his jaw. 

“Gay,” Kent whispers. 

“So’s your boyfriend.” Jack counters.

“Yeah, he super is. Hey, do you know what day it is?”

Jack pauses and thinks. “It’s April 25.”

Kent watches him, expectantly. “April 25th?”

“Yeah.”

“So could you, like, describe your idea of a perfect date?”

“What?”

“C’mon Jack, you know this one. April 25th is the perfect date because---”

“Uh,” Jack falters. “It’s the anniversary of the Liberation of Italy?”

“What? No! Goddammit, I made you watch Miss Congeniality three times. April 25th is the perfect date because it's not too hot, not too cold, all you need is a light jacket.”

“It’s also the anniversary of the Liberation of Italy.” 

Kent leans forward and presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead.

“Gay.” Jack draws it out enough to make it three syllables. 

Kent huffs. “Says the parliamentarian of the LGBTQ Student Athlete Alliance.”

“Former.” 

Kent shifts and reaches under his arm, pulling out a hardback book that had been poking him in the ribs and tossing it aside. “Huh?” 

“Former parliamentarian. Elections happened during playoffs.”

“Oh right. As did Prom and Bitty’s gymnastics meet.”

“Yeah, sorry you missed so much of his stuff.”

“You missed Prom, too.”

“I didn’t have a boyfriend to be pissed at me about it though. We still had some good times. We’ll always have memories of that Roy Rogers on the turnpike. Nothing like shitty roast beef that’s been under a heat lamp for hours.” Jack’s face brightens. “Do you think Mickey’s shoes still smell like horseradish?”

Kent groans and rolls away, hoisting himself up and off the bed. “Don’t remind me. My sinuses are still recovering.” He stretches, rolling his shoulders, then grabs the end of the comforter and starts walking away. Jack’s grab for it is heroic, but too late. 

“Asshole.”

“Asshole who brought you coffee. It’s in the kitchen, right by your mom’s weird desk alcove, which is, unrelatedly, the location of your archaic house line.”

“I know where the phone is.” Jack finally sits up and rolls out of bed. He pit checks a tshirt then slips it on and finally starts following Kent down the stairs.

He’s almost to the bottom when it hits him. “Kent? Why do you need to use my parents’ landline?”

“It’s just a little favor, nothing big.” Kent’s voice is coming from the kitchen, and Jack can smell the hazelnut coffee waiting for him as he comes in. He takes a big sip -- Kent always gets the cream to coffee ratio perfect -- and sits down at the breakfast bar.

“Okay. What do you want?”

“Oh, it’s easy. Just call the school and pretend to be Bitty’s dad and convince them that Bitty’s MooMaw’s in the hospital so he can get out of the rest of his classes for today.”

“Bitty’s what?”

“His MooMaw.”

“I don’t--” It’s too late. Kent has already dialed and put the phone in Jack’s hand. Someone picks up on the second ring.

This really isn’t helping his headache. 

Jack glares at Kent. “Hello,” he covers the receiver and clears his throat, then returns to the conversation using a deeper voice. “Yes, this is Mr. Bittle, Eric Bittle’s father. Yes, it’s Bittle, B-I-T-T-L-E. Yes, I’ll hold.” Jack covers the receiver again. “Moowhat?” he hisses at Kent.

Kent sighs. 

* * * *

The epic aura of glowering that Jack is throwing over his now cold cup of coffee from where he’s sitting on his bed would be terrifying, could Kent see him. 

Fortunately, Kent is elbows deep in cashmere, frowning as he rummages. 

“Don’t you have driving gloves?” Static electricity is making Kent’s hair stand on end, but being surrounded by that much softness is so worth it.

Jack has no idea what driving gloves look like. “If I do, they’re behind the workout gear.”

“For fuck’s sake 99% of your wardrobe is workout gear,” Kent mumbles. He shifts a basket of thermals to the side and finds his prize -- a stack of leather goods, buttery soft and, tragically, almost entirely unworn. He plucks a box from the top of the pile and grabs the pile of clothing he’s accumulated. 

“What is the point,” Kent asks as he extricates himself from mountains of old running shorts, “of having a fashion model for a mother if you never even wear the swag you get for free?”

Jack throws his empty coffee cup at Kent’s head. He misses, but it’s still satisfying. “What is the point of you raiding my closet when you know nothing is going to fit?”

“Hey! I grew 1.3 inches this year, I’ll have you know.” Kent shoves his spoils into a tote. “You gotta get dressed. We’re picking up Bitty in twenty minutes.”

Jack scrolls through his phone. “No, you’re picking him up. I am going back to bed.”

“Can’t. I need a navigator while I’m driving.”

“And we’re ‘driving’ your skateboard how, exactly?” 

When there’s no answer, Jack slowly looks up from his phone to Kent, who is wearing a grin that can only be described as shit-eating. 

He can feel the blood draining from his face. “No. Kenny, no.”

“Oh yes, Kenny yes.” 

Jack flops backwards onto the bed and groans. Kent walks over and pats his knee. “I already know where your dad keeps the keys. If you come with me, you’ll save me from committing grand theft auto.”

“Pretty sure it just makes me an accessory.”

“Pfft.” Kent slings the tote over his shoulder and grabs Jack’s hands. “That car is only slightly less famous than your face. No police officer in Nassau County is going to arrest Bob Zimmermann’s son for being out in his dad’s car. The car that --”

“--his wife bought him for his third Stanley cup, the car that was on the cover of Sports Illustrated, Jesus, I know. I know. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. We’re doing it, aren’t we? We’re doing it. We’re taking the car. Oh my god, he’s going to kill me.”

“He’s only going to kill you if we get caught, which we won’t. Now c’mon and put on clothes that make you look, you know, slightly less like a homeless burglar. Bitty’s waiting for us.”

“Well if Bitty’s waiting,” Jack grumbles as he shoves Kent out of his room.

Kent pauses in the kitchen on his way to the garage and watches the way the morning sun bounces off the crashing waters of Oyster Bay. His parents’ house in Syosset is nothing to sneeze at, but it’s also nothing like the mansion that Bob and Alicia own.

He shakes his head a little and refocuses on grabbing the spare keys out of the vase over the microwave. 

Jack come down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing a vintage Gordie Howe jersey and giant sunglasses. 

He looks like he might throw up.

Kent holds up the keys to Bob’s 1961 Ferrari and spins them around his finger. “Jack, babe, it’s gonna be fine. When have I ever steered you wrong?” 

Jack snorts.

“Okay,” Kent allows. “Maybe there were one or two occasions during the folly of our youth when I inadvertently led us to a less than desirable result, but, Jacques, we are soon to be collegiate men.”

“If my dad murders me, I’m making sure he murders you, too..”

“Noted.” They walk to the garage. Jack refuses to help Kent get the cover off the car, but it doesn’t take long. He runs his fingers over the “BBOBZ01” vanity plate, then slides into the driver’s seat and sighs as he sinks into the leather seats. He gets the driving gloves out of the tote and tosses the rest in the back. “Get in the fucking car, Zimms.”

Jack does, and they drive toward the school, pulling over half way so Kent can slip into the suit and button down from Jack’s closet, and the hat he stole from Bob’s, and so Jack can lay down in the backseat and throw a blanket over himself. 

When they roll into the parking lot of their high school, Bitty is waiting outside. His grin when he sees Kent is pure sunshine; when he hops in the front seat it’s all Kent can do not to kiss him.

“Hey old man,” Bitty says as Kent peels out of the lot. When they round the corner, he leans over and gives him a proper hello kiss at the red light. He tastes like bubblegum, soft and saccharine, but the sharp nip he gives Kent’s bottom lip reminds him of the fire that’s under all that sweetness. 

They part, the light turns green, and Bitty turns toward the back seat. “Jack, hon, you can come out now.”

It takes half a block for Jack to wrestle his way out of the blanket. His hair is a mess and he’s flushed by the time he’s buckling himself in. “Hi, Bits. Sorry about your MooMaw being in the hospital. Was that really the best you could come up with?”

Bitty laughs. “She actually is at the hospital today, doing volunteer work. I wouldn’t tempt fate too terribly much when it comes to her. And, hi, sugar. Kent tells me we’re going to have a real fun day.”

Kent grabs Bitty’s hand and squeezes. “It’s a Parson promise.” 

He guns it, and the high, clear sound of Bitty’s delighted laugh and Jack’s displeased groan are lost in the roar of the engine.

* * * *

Bitty chases Kent’s face with a palmful of sunblock, then pulls him in for a kiss while the Mets outfielders jog to their positions. 

“Stop that,” Jack says. He pokes at Kent’s side. “I can hear the smacking noises.” 

“Means we’re doing it right,” Bitty says, sweeping the last of the sunblock over the tips of Kent’s ears, then leaning over him to point at Jack’s face. “You’re gonna be real grumpy when your nose burns, mister.”

“I’m not apologizing.”

“Suit yourself. Kent, sweetie, will you go get me a coke?”

“Yeah, babe. What kind?”

“Sprite.”

“You’ve got it. Jack, do you want--”

“A Coke. As in Coca Cola. Like, the polar bears.”

Kent looks at Jack with concern. “Oookay, one Sprite and one Coke coming up. Behave yourselves.”

By the time the inning ends, Kent still isn’t back, and Jack’s nose is definitely starting to burn. He sighs. “Bitty, I apologize for making fun of your -- what is it?”

“It’s a fanny pack, Jack. And I’ll have you know they are quite fashionable this season. Unlike, say, wearing a Detroit hockey jersey to a New York City baseball game.” Bitty unzips his pack and pulls out the sunblock, holding it out to Jack over Kent’s empty seat like a peace offering. 

“Thanks.” Jack fumbles with the greasy cap and begins rubbing cream on his face.

They go back to watching the game. When Jack feels like he has enough goop covering him, he hands the balm back to Bitty, who takes it and holds still until DeGrom strikes out number 16 on the Phillies. Then, he slips over one seat and takes Jack’s face in his hands, gently turning it from side to side. He applies a swipe of block to Jack’s forehead, then recaps the tube and tucks it away. 

“There we go. Now you’re -- HEY UMP, I’VE HEARD BETTER CALLS AT A SQUARE DANCE!” Bitty scowls and sits back down. “My left buttcheek he was safe.”

Jack snorts, then covers his face with his hand. Bitty slowly turns to him. “Did you just laugh at my joke?”

“No.”

“You did! Well, wonders will never cease.”

Mercifully, Kent comes back with their drinks. Bitty keeps his seat in the middle, and spills his soda all over Jack as he and Kent shove and jockey for position to catch a homerun ball. They both miss, which is small consolation for the way Jack’s shoes squish as they walk to the parking lot.

* * * *

“You’re in the wrong lane.” They’ve been in gridlock for almost half an hour in the stadium parking lot, but are finally moving and picking up speed as they head to the Long Island Expressway. 

Kent doesn’t change lanes, so Jack tries again. “Hey, man, you gotta merge into the left hand lane to go east.”

Kent reaches over to turn up the volume on the Keshia song he’s busy butchering the lyrics to, then rests his hand on Bitty’s thigh, his thumb rubbing the tanned skin just below the hem of his shorts. “Babe, do you hear something from the backseat?”

Jack’s irritated. He knows these roads so much better than Kent, yet Kent does this every time. He leans forward and manages to turn down the music before Kent swats his hand away. 

He flops back in his seat. “I know you can fucking hear me, if you don’t turn now -- oh, great, you missed the turn and now we’re going to get stuck in the traffic for the Midtown Tunnel and turning around will be oh my god, Kenny? Tell me we’re turning around and going home? Kent? I know you can hear me. Tell me we’re not going into the city. C’mon, tell me we’re not.”

Kent shrugs. “You know I hate lying to you, Jack.”

Bitty cackles and turns to the backseat, lowering his sunglasses to look at Jack. “Sugarpie, we’ve been planning this for a month. The ballgame was just the beginning. You don’t worry ‘bout a thing, we’re going to have a blast.”

Jack’s groan is lost to the wind. 

* * * *

It takes them about ten minutes to get up the stairs outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art because Bitty and Kent keep pulling him in for ridiculously staged selfies. They snap photos with the three of them in varying combinations, and also charm their way into a group of Chinese tourists. When they’ve finally exchanged Instagram names with all their new friends, they head inside.

It’s different being at the Met without parents or a school group. Jack had rolled his eyes when Bitty and Kent started to get in the line for tickets, instead ushering them to the Members table and using his parents’ account to get them comped.

Bitty was ecstatic to discover that the Zimmermann’s generous donations to the museum not only promise free admission, but also a discount on all museum gift shop purchases. 

“Thank you, Mr. Zimmermann,” the woman taking care of them had said, and Bitty and Kent’s high pitched catcalls and chirping had echoed off the ancient stones of the Egyptian wing until a docent shushed them.

He’s sitting on the ledge that goes around the Temple of Dendur, watching Kent and Bitty try to get a group of middle schoolers to help them make a human pyramid by the temple’s entrance. “It’ll be a pyramid in front of a pyramid!” Kent pleads, as the younger teenagers eye him skeptically. 

One girl in an oversized Knicks hoodie looks at Kent pityingly. “This isn’t a pyramid.”

“I mean, it’s close enough.” Jack can’t see Kent’s face, but he’d be willing to bet he’s working his biggest bullshit smile.

The girl actually pulls down her glasses so she can look over them at Kent. “The pyramids were like, 2000 years earlier than this. We’re supposed to be analyzing the reliefs. Unless you actually know anything about ancient Egypt, could you, I dunno, move?”

The sound of Jack’s laughter bounces off the marble plaza. When Kent walks over and dejectedly flops down next to him, he sighs dramatically and leans his head on Jack’s shoulder. “We weren’t that jaded when we were youths, right?”

“Nah, you were just as bad at bullshitting in elementary -- OUCH, you asshole.” Kent giggles and scoots away as Jack rubs at his chest. “You missed my nipple, you absolute dick.”

“Jack, don’t curse in front of the art!” 

“Why are we friends?”

Kent shrugs. “Whatever, you love me.” He’s silent for a few minutes, his eyes following Bitty, who has made friends with a small group of tweens and is listening as they point out things on the temple walls. “Look at him,” Kent says, the fondness in his voice impossible to miss. “I love him so much.”

“If you love him so much, why don’t you marry him.” It’s not Jack’s best chirp, but his ass his cold from sitting on marble, and he can’t place the feeling that’s been lingering in the background of his thoughts all day.

“I’m going to. Got a ring picked out and everything.”

Jack jerks at that, the sudden movement making Kent sit up straight. “You do not. Wait, do you? You don’t. What?”

“Chill man, I’m fucking with you. But, I could see it down the road.” The surety with which he says it shakes Jack to his core. Kent has never planned for a single thing in his life. He constantly filches stuff he forgot from Jack’s gear bag and locker. He can never find his passport. For fuck’s sake, he almost missed the college application deadline; Jack had to literally sit on him while he pecked away at his laptop, racing to beat the clock. 

But he’s planning to marry Bitty. Bitty, who transfered into their high school at the end of last year and who has Kent wrapped so snugly around his finger that Jack couldn’t dislodge him if he tried.

Not that he would want to.

Kent blithely continues. “I mean, first of all, we gotta get through college. I’d put money on him qualifying for the next Olympics if this new training thing he’s got going works out. We’re going to rule the NHL. Etcetera. It’s a busy few years coming up.”

Jack licks his lips. “But you love him.”

“You know I do. Hey, Bits! Let’s go see the boring shit Jack likes.”

And like that, Kent’s up and walking to his boyfriend, grabbing his hand and tugging him away from the teenagers and toward the American Wing. 

All Jack can do is follow.

They take their time in the galleries, Jack letting himself space out in front of Washington Crossing the Delaware. All he can think about is how cold and scared the men must have been, how hungry and dirty and _tired_. An older woman clearing her throat next to him snaps him out of it; he smiles at her sheepishly and relinquishes his seat on the bench. Kent and Bitty are nowhere to be seen. 

He finds them a few rooms over, sitting in front of the Versailles panorama, softly kissing in the dim light, a facade of opulent gardens stretching out behind them. 

They don’t hear him come in, and they don’t hear him leave, either. He heads back to the courtyard and gets a cup of mediocre coffee at the cafe. He’s scrolling through sports sites when Bitty and Kent stop beside his table, holding hands. 

“Whatcha looking at?” Kent asks, craning his neck to see Jack’s phone. “Oh, hockey. Or since it’s you, does it count as fetish pornography?”

“Don’t think I won’t dump you into the fountains out front.”

“You wouldn’t.”

Jack taps Kent’s nose with his phone. “You’re going to be nervous when we pass them, now.”

“Will not.”

“Ok, gentlemen,” Bitty cuts in. “As much as I treasure the thought of Kent dripping wet --”

“Gross.”

“Hush, Jack. But really, we should get going.”

“Where are we going?” Jack mumbles.

“Somewhere awesome.” Bitty grabs Jack’s hand, and tugs till he stands, then leds him outside.

Jack doesn’t dump Ken in the fountain, but he does make him flinch at least twice as they walk past. 

* * * *

“I have a black AmEx with my father’s name on it. That would get us seated.” Jack’s grumpy. He’s hungry, and he’s not convinced the brilliant plan of having Bitty flirt and charm his way into Cafe Boulud without reservations is going to work. 

On the bright side, his headache is gone.

Kent pats his shoulder. “That AmEx will get a workout paying for this, no worries.”

“I’m not worried, I’m hungry. We’re not dressed for this, anyway. Can’t we just go to Shake Shack?”

“No, we cannot. Trust me, Bits has this.” 

They watch as Bitty works on the host, leaning forward and asking a question they can’t hear, then pulling back and putting one hand on his chest in mock outrage at the answer. The host’s expression is shifting from annoyed into something softer. 

Charmed, Jack realizes. He’s been charmed.

Two minutes later they’re seated at a tucked away table.

“I didn’t think that would work.” Jack eyes the breadbasket on the table next to them.

“Hmm, underestimating me is a silly thing to do.” Bitty looks smug as he pursues the menu. “Jack, hon, you’re going to have to order for me. I can’t speak a lick of French.”

“Ugh. Fine. What do you like to eat?”

Bitty turns to him and looks at him for a moment. Then he does….something, something with his eyes or his mouth that’s too quick for Jack to figure out, but suddenly Bitty’s looking at him like he wants to _devour_ him.

Jack suddenly knows exactly how the host felt.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty drawls, dragging out his vowels even more than usual. “I’ll eat whatever you put in my mouth.”

Kent chokes on his water.

Bitty licks his lips but cracks up before he can finish. “Oh my lord, your face! you’d never last a minute in the south if you can’t stand up to a little flirtin’. Goodness.”

The waiter arrives and conveys his displeasure at having three teenagers who are definitely not following the dress code sitting at his table with an epic eye roll. 

“Sirs?” he says derisively. “Would you like the kiddie menu?”

“Watch this,” Jack whispers to Bitty. He raises his voice. “I’m not entirely sure what I want to order yet.”

“Hmm,” Kent says, “I don’t know Jack Zimmermann. What do you think your father, three time Stanley Cup Champion, Bob Zimmermann would order?”

“Well,” Jack flips through the menu. “Bob Zimmermann, my father, usually goes for steak, which is what Bob Zimmermann, who, by the way, is my father, ate after winning the 1990 Stanley Cup for the New York Rangers.”

Tragically, the waiter snaps into gear before Jack and Kent can complete their script, but that just means they’ll get food faster. 

When the waiter leaves, Bitty looks dumbstruck. “Aww, Bittle,” Jack says, reaching over to pat his back. “Your face. You’re never going to last in the north if you can’t handle a little name dropping.”

The squawk of outrage that comes out of Bitty is almost as delicious as their meal.

* * * *

“Think we can drag him away soon?” Bitty’s leaning on the railing of the Bethesda Terrace overlook, head propped up on his hands. The weather is beautiful and Central Park is bustling with New Yorkers still shaking away their winter stupor. “I mean, he’s got to get tired sooner or later.”

Below them, Kent is running around with a group of kids. He’s stolen one of their bubble guns and is trying to hide behind a Coco Helado cart, but the cart owner is giving away his location by yelling and swatting at him.

“You’d think, but he never gets tired.” Jack considers going down to get an icee. He’s still building back up from playoffs; he can afford to have some sweets. Or maybe an ice cream cone. 

Fuck it, he’s a national champion varsity athlete. He’s getting an icee. A big one. 

Bitty’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Are you having even a little bit of fun today?”

Jack considers. “Promise not to tell Kent?”

“You mean the man who was just taken down by a five year old with a NERF gun and is dying the most dramatic of deaths down there? That Kent? Sure, I won’t tell.”

Jack leans in close to Bitty. “I am having a lot of fun.”

“Hah! I knew it!” Bitty fist pumps.

“Ugh, Kent taught you that, didn’t he?”

“Guilty as charged. C’mon, let’s go get our boy.”

“Can we get icees?” Jack asks, as they start to go down the stairs.

“Oh, I have pastry _plans_ , you don’t need a sad lil icee.”

Jack’s eaten Bitty’s baking before. He trusts the man when it comes to desserts. 

When they get down to the plaza, Kent is still dying, going from convulsions to dramatic declarations of love for his wife, Helen, and their five children.

The group of kids he was playing with are eating it up.

After he finally resurrects and takes a bow, it takes another ten minutes for them to convince him that rowboating is not going to be as much fun as he thinks. Jack is almost swayed by his impassioned yet illogical arguments in favor; Bitty holds the line and gets them moving back to the Upper East Side.

Kent sulks as they walk to Madison, but a box full of Laduree macarons cheers him up. 

“They’re not as good as mine, right?” Bitty’s eating the last from the box they’re sharing -- rose. Jack can just smell the floral filling from where he’s walking. It smells nice, but he’s glad he grabbed the pistachio before Kent did. 

“Not even close.”

They walk up Madison, back to the 70’s before turning toward Lexington and their garage. Bitty makes a yearning noise as they pass Lady M. “Next time, babe,” Kent promises.

“But -- “

Kent lifts the shopping bag in his hand. “We already have all these macarons -- “

“C’mon, Bittle.” Jack puts his arm across Bitty’s shoulder and guides him toward the bakery. “Parse, you can pull the car around.”

“I’m not a chauffeur!!” Kent shouts as the glass door shuts and separates them.

“He’s not going to get the car. He’ll just be outside, lookin’ all sad when we come out.” Bitty’s eyes don’t leave the display case as he talks.

“Maybe.” Jack inhales deeply. “It smells really good in here.”

“Look at how delicate that chocolate work is on that cake. This place is like heaven.”

Jack looks over Bitty’s shoulder at the display. “You said that about the last bakery.”

“Well if Dante can have nine circles of hell, I’m entitled to at least two bakeries of heaven.”

“The ninth circle is treachery. How does that connect to baked goods?”

“You ever try to make meringue on a humid summer day?”

Jack has no idea what meringue is. “...no.”

“Well, I’ll have you know, it’s a very treacherous business!”

Bitty looks so pleased with himself that Jack can’t help but laugh. “How do you do that?”

Fresh trays are being brought out from the back; Bitty stretches to try and see what’s on them. “Do what?” he asks distractedly.

“How are you so, you know. You?”

Bitty turns his attention from the trays to Jack. “Are you feeling okay, hon?”

“Yeah, fine.” They finally reach the counter. Jack pulls out his wallet, takes out a card, and offers it to Bitty. “Get whatever you want.”

Bitty looks at the proffered card and then at Jack before shaking his head and pushing it away. “One green tea mille crêpes cake, the six inch one, or maybe -- no, six inches is fine. And an eclair.” Bitty pays with cash and soon he and Jack are back outside, Bitty gently swinging the cake box by its string and handing jack the paper bag with the eclair. “We can share the cake when we get home, but that’s for you.”

“Why?” 

“For you being so you.”

They look up and down the street but Kent is nowhere to be seen. “Heh,” Jack chuckles. “Guess he is a chauffeur after all.”

“He’d look cute in one of those lil hats.” Bitty steers them to the stoop of a brownstone, and they sit. 

Jack unwraps the eclair and takes a bite. It’s phenomenal. The pastry is crisp, the creme delicately sweet but not cloying, and there’s just enough chocolate.

He holds it out to Bitty, whose eyes light up when he gets his bite. “Wow.” He takes another nibble before passing it back to Jack. “How’d you know?”

“What?” 

“How’d you know Kent would actually go get the car?”

“Oh, Kenny’s easy like that.”

“He -- Kent? Easy?”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah.”

“How long have you two been friends?”

“Since we were seven. Met at hockey camp.”

“And you know everything about each other?”

Jack eats the last of the pastry and licks his fingers clean of chocolate. “Yeah. We do.”

“Hmm.” Bitty clenches the hand holding the strings of the cake box. Jack can hear the cardboard crackle.

“Careful, Bittle. Don’t squish the cake.”

“Excuse you, I know how to handle baked goods. I should have asked earlier, but do you think Kent will like this cake?”

“Not sure Kent’s ever liked anything that’s only six inches.”

It takes a second, but Jack watches the dawning comprehension wash over Bitty’s face. “Jack. Laurent. Zimmermann. Did you just make a sex joke?”

Jack points at himself. “Who, me? I’m just talking about cake.” 

Bitty laughs. “Don’t give me that! You did make a sex joke! And here I thought you didn’t like me enough to get risque.”

“What? I like you just fine.”

Bitty’s reply is lost to the absolute calamity that is Kent pulling up, ignoring the “DON’T HONK” signs on every street post and making a ruckus.

Bitty jumps in the car and leans over the gearshift to kiss Kent.

“Any more surprises? Jack asks as he walks around the car and looks for damage. 

“We’re all tapped out.” Kent says. “Get in.”

Jack does, and Bitty passes the cake box to him.

“Ooh what’s in there?” Kent asks. “Something for me?”

Jack and Bitty burst into laughter and don’t stop for a good four or five blocks.

“I still think you could explain what’s so funny,” Kent grumbles as he navigates toward the 59th Street Bridge.

“Hey wait, turn right when you can.” Jack’s checking Google Maps in the backseat. “Yeah, take a right. We want to get to 47th and 6th Ave. One more stop, then we can go home.”

“Yup,” Kent says, turning, as Bitty asks, “What’s at 47th and 6th?”

“You’ll see.” Jack puts his phone back in his pocket and smiles.

* * * *

“I can’t believe you’re making me stay with the car. Me, one of the two people who play hockey in this vehicle.” Kent puts the car in park and slouches down in the seat, running his fingers along the bottom curve of the steering wheel. 

Jack leans forward and pinches Kent’s cheek. “So fucking grumpy. You’re the one who parked in front of a fire hydrant. I’m not risking that ticket. You game, Bittle?”

Bitty checks his hair in the rearview mirror, then gives Kent a peck on the cheek. “Babydoll, I’ll text you photos. You won’t miss a thing.” He hops out of the car. “C’mon, Jack.”

“Et tu, Bi-tay?” Kent asks, fist clenched on his chest. 

Bitty blows him a kiss. “Solid joke! See you soon!”

“Jack? Buddy? Never too late to change your mind or for me to find another parking space?”

“In midtown? At 5pm? Good luck.” Jack throws an arm around Bitty’s shoulders. “You were the one who wanted to drive. See you soon, Parse.” 

They slip into the crowd of the sidewalk and walk the half block to the NHL Store. When they’re at the door, Bitty stops in his tracks and hustles back to the car, leaving Jack to look after him with a puzzled expression.

Kent lights up when he sees him approach the car. “Aww baby, I knew you loved --”

“Kent Parson, you listen here.” Bitty grips the top of the door with one hand and uses the other to jab a finger at Kent’s face. “If you even think about eating any of that cake that’s in the backseat I will not have sex with you until graduation.”

Kent splutters. “Graduation is three weeks away!”

“Exactly.” And with that, Bitty runs back over to Jack, and they go in the store together.

* * * *

It’s been twenty minutes. 

If Bitty hadn’t mentioned the cake, Kent wouldn’t have thought about it. 

But now, it’s the only thing on his mind. 

Well, that and if Jack and Bitty are ever going to come back, and if they do how much cool hockey shit will they have bought that Kent _also_ may have wanted, but was cruelly denied the chance to buy.

Ugh.

He’s scrolling through his most recent pictures of his cat for a second time when the passenger door opens. 

“Finally,” he says, fiddling with Instagram filters on a snap of Kit lounging in a sunbeam. “Did you --”

“ _Kent_.” Kent’s never heard Bitty’s voice that sharp. “Help me, now.”

Kent looks up. Bitty’s got his arms around Jack’s waist and is trying to shove him into the back seat, but Jack is so much heavier, it’s not quite working. Bitty manages to turn him and Kent sees Jack’s face.

“Oh, fuck, not now.” Kent’s up and out of the car. “Bitty, you’re going to have to drive --”

“No.”

“Shit, Bitty, I know you don’t like driving in the city, but this is kind of an emergency.” They manage to pivot and wrestle Jack into the car, and Bitty actually shoves Kent out of the way so he can climb in besides him. “Eric, seriously, he needs --”

“I barely managed to hold it together to get him out of that store. I am in no shape to drive, and the last thing Jack got out of his mouth was askin’ me not to leave him. So you are going to drive as fast as you can and get us back to his house.”

Kent, for once in his life, does exactly as he’s told.


	2. Chapter 2

The Andersons live three houses down the street from the Zimmermanns. Their son, Craig, left for college two years ago, but Al and Sue made it clear that they expected Jack, and by extension Kent, to keep letting themselves in with the key under the garden gnome in the back if they weren’t home, and to have dinner with them at least once a month when they were.

Kent got a graduation check from them last week. It was for a grand. 

He’s pretty sure they’re in Europe at the moment, which is good because there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to get Jack past any adults without them immediately calling Bob and Alicia. 

That’s, like, the worst possible option.

To be honest, the plan Kent’s currently working on is about five down from optimal, mostly because Bitty refuses to fucking believe that Kent can deal with this by himself and just go home and call tomorrow.

Kent’s always been scrappy, though. He’ll make it work. 

He lets them all into the garage and disables the security alarm -- the code’s been Craig’s birthday as long as he can remember. He guides them to the back of the huge house, where the indoor swimming pool and jacuzzi are, and sends Bitty to the wet bar to find some Gatorade. 

Soon enough, he’s got himself and Jack stripped down to their boxers. He gives Jack one of the five bottles Bitty brought over, orange, his favorite, and Jack downs it without complaint before letting Kent ease him into the bubbling tub. Kent situates himself on the long bench, then pulls Jack flush against him, his arms wrapped around Jack’s chest.

Jack tips his head back on Kent’s shoulder. “Kenny?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok.” 

The sit like that for a while, the jets beating against Kent’s back. 

Kent startles when there’s movement to his left. It’s Bitty, sitting on the edge of the tub, his long, beautiful legs dangling in the water. “Hi, honey.”

“Hi.”

“Any time you wanna tell me what’s going on would be great.”

“Uhhh --” Kent stalls.

“Just tell him.” Kent can’t see Jack’s face, but he feels his hand stroke at Kent’s arms where they’re wrapped around his chest. “S’fine. Talk about me like I’m not here. I’m used to it.”

Bitty swings his legs out of the tub and stands up so he can get out of his shorts and shirt. “Hon, I understand you’re in a state, but don’t you dare accuse me of being rude enough to talk about you behind your back.”

“I’m having a fucking panic attack, you have to be nice to me.” Jack rolls over on his side and tucks his face into Kent’s neck.

"Oh, you're gonna be sassy?" Kent turns to face Bitty. "That's a good sign." 

Bitty rolls his eyes. “I am being nice. I want to help you.”

“You don’t care about me. No one does.”

“Uh-uh, no.” Bitty steps into the water and swim-walks to Kent’s side, leaving a little space between them when he sits down. “The people in this hot tub would severely disagree with you there. So, I’m gonna ask some questions and try to understand what in God’s good earth is going on.”

Kent opens his mouth, but is cut off by Bitty.

“Jack, has this happened before?” 

Jack nestles further into Kent’s body; Kent feels his breath on his neck, but also the faintest nod. Kent strokes his hair and answers. “Yes.”

“When?”

“I’m not really sure Jack would want you to know this stuff, it’s pretty --” but Jack reaches his arm out, his fingers grabbing toward Bitty.

Bitty slides closer and twines his fingers with Jack’s. 

Kent sighs. “Okay, so Jack has some anxiety --”

“No shit, sugar plum.”

“--ANYWAY, he gets like this sometimes when big things happen? Like, playoffs was kind of a mess. Or visiting colleges. That was super stressful.”

“Well, that makes sense, I guess. Those are big deals. But I don’t get what happened at the store today. One minute we were looking through Rangers jerseys, the next he was freaking out.”

At that, Jack lifts his head the tiniest bit, to Kent’s ear. Bitty can see his lips move, enough to get a word or two out, but the sound of the jets and bubbles remove any possibility of him hearing it. 

“So,” Kent says, stroking Jack’s back, “you haven’t met Jack’s dad.”

Bitty snorts and feels Jack’s grasp on his hand tighten. “I may be a gymnast but I’ve been dating a fool of a hockey player for a year. I know a good bit about Bob Zimmermann.”

“Okay,” Kent says. “Like what?”

“Uh, let’s see. Bob’s won the Stanley Cup three times, twice for the Rangers. He was on the Wheaties box. I think he was in the Olympics? And he’s been a huge part of You Can Play since Jack came out, which is amazing, and --- oh. Oh I get it.”

“Get what?”

“At the store today. There were two fellas talking on the other side of the display we were looking at. They couldn’t see us, but they were talkin’ about the Rangers and if Jack would be goin’ to them or another team, and how if he made it it would be --” Bitty falters.

“Proof that gays can do sports,” Jack mumbles, muffled but clear enough. “And if I didn’t make it --”

“Well, I think Kent can put together the rest of it, sweetie.” Bitty lifts their clasped hands and kisses Jack’s knuckles, then gently lets go so he can cuddle up to Kent’s side. “Jack, you don’t know my whole life story, but I can tell you that I certainly know about trying to live up to your daddy’s legacy. You doing any better?”

“Little bit.”

“Well, that’s real good to hear. Kent, what about you?”

“Huh?” Kent turns to look at Bitty. “I’m fine.”

“And I’m the Queen of Portugal.” Bitty shifts so that he’s more firmly sat against Kent. “Baby, do you do this for him every time he has one of these spells?”

“Well, not this exactly, but, yeah. I’m never not going to be there for my best friend.”

“And you never try to get his parents to help? Or a coach?”

“Sometimes. I mean after -- uh, after the really bad time.”

“The really bad time?” Kent can’t put a label on how Bitty’s looking at him, half like Kent’s a tricky pre-calc assignment, half like he’s an animal Bitty’s trying not to startle.

“We don’t -- I don’t think. Jack?”

“No,” Jack breathes out.

“Sorry, Bits.”

“Later, then. Jack said he was feelin’ a little better. I know this wasn’t your first rodeo. What helps with the anxiety, Jack?”

Kent answers. “Warmth. Hot tubs, saunas, baths, blankets, you know. And, uh --” Kent can feel the flush spreading across his cheeks. “Physical contact. Something grounding. Like this. Holding him. Shit, sometimes sitting on his stubborn ass till he admits he’s losing it.”

“And that’s...just you? The physical part? Or do your teammates help, too?”

“Uh, well --”

“Kent.” Bitty’s tone is sharp. 

Kent sighs. “It’s me, okay. I’m the only one who can fix him. I sit with him in a sauna or a bed or a fucking bathtub if that’s where he is and hold him and he eventually starts shaking and mumbling about how he’s a failure and I’m just, you know. There. Till he’s better.”

“Oh, honey.” Bitty’s face shifts again, but this time Kent can read the emotion like a book cover. He’s sad.

“He’s my best friend.” Kent’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat.

“But who fixes you?”

“Huh?”

Bitty cocks his head to the side. “After you take care of Jack, who takes care of you?”

“No, I’m fine. He’s the one who needs the help.”

“Lord, that explains a lot,” Bitty mumbles as Jack sits up enough to be heard clearly.

“You’re not fine, Kenny.”

“What?”

Jack brushes damp hair off Kent’s forehead and drags his fingers down behind his ear. Kent shivers despite the heat of the water. “You’re not. Fine. I know what you do when you leave me. You go punch things at the gym till your knuckles bruise.”

Kent drops his gaze. “You weren’t supposed to know that.”

Jack smiles, a soft, warm thing, and puts a finger under Kent’s chin to tip his face back up. “Hey, look at me. You really thought I believed that you got the exact same injury on ice every time after I had a panic attack? I know you as well as you know me.” Jack looks at Bitty, then back at Kent. “I’m just too selfish to let you go.”

Kent knocks Jack’s hand away and grabs him by the shoulders, hard. “Don’t you fucking say that. Don’t you dare.”

Jack doesn’t fight Kent’s grip, doesn’t move. “What? That I’m selfish?” 

“That you could let me go.” It comes out just over a whisper. Kent hears Bitty’s sharp intake of breath but can't focus on it as Jack pulls him close, so close, till they’re leaning in, foreheads pressed together, years of friendship hanging in the milimeters that separate them.

“Do it.” Bitty’s voice cuts through.

“What?” Kent couldn’t turn to look at him if a gun were to his head. All he can see are Jack’s eyes, so close that they blur, but no less blue.

“Kiss him. You know you want to.”

“I do.” Kent gasps to hear it outloud, from his own mouth. The truth of that statement has lingered just below the surface of Kent’s consciousness since the day he met Jack, shy, pudgy, and already a hockey phenom. Jack has been half of Kent’s soul for years. 

He’s always loved Jack. That part was easy. But he’s also always half been in love with Jack, too.

“So if you want to, do it.” Bitty’s moved closer and is practically whispering in Kent’s ear.

“But,” Kent hesitates, “I love you.”

“You don’t not love him.”

Kent would like to think that it takes an epic battle between integrity and altruism to spark what happens next, but it’s so much simpler.

Jack cups Kent’s face with one of his big, warm hands, and Kent leans in, tilting his head so that when his and Jack’s lips meet it’s a perfect fit. 

Jack’s lips are soft and gentle, a contrast to the heat of everything around them; the bubbling water, the steam rising up between their bodies, Kent’s blood pounding in his ears. 

Too soon, Jack’s pulling away. “Sorry,” he whispers, and Kent leans in again and kisses the apology away. He gets lost it in, the pull of Jack’s mouth better than he ever imagined, so good he doesn’t notice, in the periphery, Bitty moving away from them.

Jack lunges out of Kent’s arms, reaching out and grabbing Bitty’s wrist. “Don’t leave.”

Bitty strains against Jack’s hold, trying to get to the steps. “Please, I can’t stay.” 

“Bittle. Eric. He loves you, too.”

Bitty’s face crumples. “Not enough.”

Jack rises up, his full height looming over Bitty for a heartbeat before he pushes past him and to the stairs. “Fuck you, don’t you dare say that about Kent. You wanted to know who takes care of Kent? You do. And he takes care of you right back. And you assholes love each other. I’m going to go swim.”

They can just hear the splash of Jack diving into the pool a few seconds later.

Bitty, dazed, sits down.“Did I just get captain-voiced?”

“Yeah. It’s not so bad when you’re used to it.” Kent scoots over next to him, draws him close and wraps him up in his arms. “Hi, I love you. Eric, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, you big ol’ jock. But baby, you do love Jack.”

Kent sighs. “Yes. Very much.”

“So,” Bitty says. “Seems like an impasse to me.”

They sit for awhile, as Jack swims laps. Bitty is beautiful in Kent’s arms, solid in so many ways, yet with an elegant grace that shines when he’s flying around the parallel bars or flipping himself higher and higher through his floor routines. It’s dazzling there, but, at school, at home, and in Kent’s bed, it goes beyond. It shakes Kent to his core. Bitty has always been able to lay him out flat with the sheer force of his personality and his love. 

Kent squeezes him tighter. He’s not giving that up. “Jack was wrong.”

“Hmm?” 

The way Bitty is curled against Kent is a mirror of Jack earlier. Another beautiful boy in his arms, another way for him to fuck up everything. “He’s not the selfish one. I am. I want you both.”

“Oh, honey.” Bitty trails his fingers over Kent’s forearm, connecting freckles. “That doesn’t make you selfish.”

Kent shakes his head. “Yes, it does. But could we try?”

“Try what?” Bitty stills his hand on Kent’s wrist, rubbing his thumb over Kent’s pulse.

“Us. The three of us.”

Bitty doesn’t reply right away, taking a moment to think. As he does, Kent studies his face. It’s full of memories -- kisses to his button nose, flushes over his cheeks, his eyelashes fluttering at Kent when he wants something.

Kent always, always gives in.

Bitty shifts in his arms, drawing Kent’s attention back to the present. “Hmm,” he says, his brow creased in thought. “Like, you’d be both our boyfriends?”

“No.” Kent’s voice is firm. “All three of us together. We’d all be boyfriends.”

“So,” Bitty says slowly, “I’d go out with you, and you’d go out with Jack -- ”

Kent rushes to fill in the rest. “Yeah, and we’d all three be together sometimes, and maybe, eventually, you and Jack would spend some time without me. Crazy, right?”

“Well, I mean, a couple hours ago, yes, I would say that. But, you know, today was the first time I stopped trying to fight liking Jack. He’s a nice guy, handsome too, but y’all never really played it that close to the chest. I’m not blind.“ 

_No,_ Kent thinks. _You see everything._ He inhales deeply and counts beats before he exhales, nervous about where Bitty is going with this.

He doesn’t have to worry for long. 

Bitty’s voice is steady as he speaks. “Baby, I’ve known for a long time that you two were always a step or two away from what happened today. I think...maybe if that wasn’t an issue? If it was all out on the table? Then, maybe?”

Kent tugs gently at Bitty, letting the buoyancy of the water do most of the work of pulling him into his lap. Bitty clings to Kent, kisses him deeply, pressing his body in hard. It’s always overwhelming in the best way when Bitty gets like this, and soon enough Kent’s hard, Bitty grinding against him unrepentantly. 

It feels, like always, fucking amazing. It takes effort, but Kent gets his brain back on line enough to ask, “Bits, what are you doing?” 

“I don’t know hon, but neither do you and neither does Jack.” Bitty sits back just a little, then hollers. “Hey, Jack? Did you manage to swim it off?”

Jack pops up next to the tub, startling Kent. “Yeah, think so.” He pulls himself up out of the water. 

Bitty takes a long moment to look at Jack’s body, running his eyes up and down and back up again.

“Uh, Bittle?” Jack looks at Kent, who just shrugs.

“I think it’s about time you started calling me Bitty. I’m fixing to take Kent back to your place and fuck him on your bed. Wanna watch?”

“Shit --”

“The fuck, Bits --”

Bitty gathers himself up and climbs out of the tub, stripping off his boxers and giving Kent and Jack a glimpse of his hard cock before he wraps himself up in a big fluffy towel. Then he walks over to Jack and pulls him down into a bruising kiss. 

By the time they part, Jack’s panting. 

Bitty looks a little dazed, too. “We can come back here and tidy up later, right?”

“Uh, absolutely,” Kent says.

Jack reaches over to help pull Kent out of the jacuzzi. “Totally.”

“Then I’m taking this towel with me. Oh! And we have cake for after!”

* * * *

At first, Jack is content to sit against the headboard while Bitty opens up Kent slowly, teasingly, then makes love to him soft and sweet, Kent laying on his back and gripping at Jack’s soft, white sheets. Bitty notices Jack starting to sneak closer to them, reaches out and pulls him in for a kiss, then another, then another. 

Below them, Kent whines, so Jack slides down to lay beside him. They kiss while Kent gets fucked and Jack strokes himself. Bitty loses track of time as he watches the two of them; Jack’s thick pale body against Kent’s lithe limbs, their mouths flush from kissing. They’re both making breathy sounds and Bitty’s so turned on he might die. When Jack comes all over Kent’s belly, Bitty can’t hold back any longer. 

They catch their breath and lay on either side of Kent, bringing him off together. 

They’re quiet for a bit, after, drifting on the good feeling of orgasm. Eventually, Bitty giggles. “Your bed’s big enough so we can all avoid the wet spot.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. He’s flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. “That’s what I told the salesman when I picked it out. I asked him what he had that would be big enough for a threesome with my best friend and his boyfriend and he said, oh, it’s your lucky day, we just got in a new shipment of--”

Whatever Jack was going to say is cut off by the pillow Kent throws at his face. Jack retaliates by grabbing Kent’s ankle and dragging him into something that’s half wrestling, half making out, Bitty chirping both sides for technique. 

Jack taps out first. Kent crows in triumph and demands a victory kiss from Bitty, but before that happens, Jack’s stomach rumbles.

They play rock paper scissors for who has to get the cake and forks and plates; Bitty loses, but Kent gallantly offers to go downstairs for him. 

Jack and Bitty both watch his naked ass as he leaves, then settle back into the bed, Bitty’s head resting on Jack’s thigh. 

“You totally let him win that wrestling match, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, he’s a sore loser.” Jack runs his fingers through Bitty’s hair, massaging his scalp.

“Mmm, never stop doing that,” Bitty says. “So, uh, that was, uh, well --”

“Awesome. That was awesome.”

“Oh good, you were so quiet I wasn’t sure.” Bitty rolls over and moves up the bed so he can kiss Jack, then leans against him. “You think this is gonna work?”

Jack puts an arm around Bitty and pulls the covers up over them. “To be honest? I’m way more worried about me being in Boston and Kent in Minnesota and you still here next year. I knew I’d miss Kent, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be missing you, too.”

“Aww, you big old softie. We’ll make it work.”

They can hear the noise of Kent coming back up the stairs.

“Yeah,” Jack says, kissing the top of Bitty’s head. “I think we will.”

**Author's Note:**

> You guys know the original film should have ended with a poly relationship and some bangin', yes? Yes.
> 
> Hey, lovely soul who prompted this! I hope you like it even though it is more adjacent to the film than faithful to it. 
> 
> Thank you to summerfrost for the cheerleading and beta, and for the fest mods for being far too kind on my way, way, way late submission!
> 
> (An aside that has nothing to do with this: after I finished the last corrections, I went to the liquor store and got a free bottle of wine as an end of year "thank you for your business" gift. I just feel that both Kent Parson and Ferris Bueller would have appreciated that.)
> 
>  
> 
> Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://pbj-epifest.tumblr.com/) on the PB&J Epifest tumblr page!


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